


The Errant Royal Bride

by WendyNerd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, F/M, Godswood, Infidelity, Marriage, Outdoor Sex, Rough Sex, Sex, Stealing, Teasing, Wildlings - Freeform, free folk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 21:46:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3184292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ambitious man of the Free Folk steals into the royal bedchamber to steal the Prince of Westeros's fire-kissed bride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Errant Royal Bride

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I mostly view this as a stand-alone oneshot, though I've written it vaguely enough so it can apply to Trials and Tricks. A few notes I've borrowed are the "Maegor Chambers" and the fact that in this fic, Jon and Val have in fact boinked before. 
> 
> For all of you that don't read Trials and Tricks: Don't worry, you don't have to have read it to get it. It counts as a stand-alone.

 

**The Errant Royal Bride**

The “Maegor chambers” were not the sorts of rooms really intended for a lady’s needs: antique weaponry and old maps mostly decorated the severe blood red walls.

The furnishing themselves were as harsh as the twin set of war axes that were mounted on the wall. Even the large bed had a headboard shaped like the wings and head of a dragon and the four posters from which the crimson curtains had clawed ends. The other pieces of furniture, including a wardrobe, two side tables, a writing desk, chair, chests and a dresser were quite minimalistic and practical in design, if a bit severe looking.

They were built and selected by men that favored martial pursuits over the art and finery a traditional lady would prefer. Nearly every inch the rooms screamed ‘Warrior.’

There was one exception. The dressing table was the same dark wood and rail of the other furnishings in the room. The black wood had engravings of wolves and dragons along the border of the large mirror. The drawers of the table sported silver handles. And the marble tabletop was large enough to fit a jewelry box, hair tools, and a collection of crystal-topped perfumes and creams.

Sitting before the large mirror was a woman who contrasted as much with the warlike room as the table. Sansa Stark, Princess of Westeros, Warden of the North and Lady of Winterfell sat alone that evening. Her hair was as deep a red as the walls of the chamber, falling over her pale shoulder kinked and bent by the ornate, braided bun she’d worn it in that day. Now she ran a silver-plated, fine-tooth comb to smooth it again.

The Princess could not look any less suited to the apartments she resided in or more like the princess she was. Upon her neck glittered an ornate wreath of rubies, sapphires, and diamonds and sapphire studs were at her ears, bringing out the deep blue of her eyes. She knew she ought to remove her jewelry, but she did like looking at it. Rarely did she get the chance to admire how they looked on her and she didn’t see the point of having pretty things if one couldn’t enjoy them as much as one would like.

She still had her gown on as well. The grand tournament and feast celebrating the new spring and the new heir to the throne was an occasion for jewels and silks and she had both. As the mother of the new heir, she tried to look her best in blue-grey damask trimmed with pale rose opening over white satin. The cuffs of her damask sleeves were wide and pointed. The pale rose lacings of her bodice were loosened. But apart from that and her hair, she looked every inch proper royalty.

 _I do look well,_ she thought,  _Everyone I met with said so._ Sansa never really suffered many negative observations about her appearance, though. She’d been a known beauty since her childhood, and she’d always taken great care with her appearance. Even during her time masquerading as the bastard Alayne Stone, with hair dyed a dull brown and clad in drab brown wool, everyone she encountered remarked upon her beauty. Her experiences with the sort of negative attention good looks could gain for a young woman robbed most compliments of their appeal. Still, she did like to be appreciated from time to time when it came from the mouths of the right people.

And as she’d been worrying over her figure for a while, the desire for admiration had increased. Sansa wanted to feel adored and desirable. She wanted the right person to make her feel that way.

Her husband, the person who by law was supposed to want her, was not present. He was out doing who knew what. He’d been kind and attentive to her throughout the day’s events, of course, but they’d barely spoken and Sansa found herself wondering if her prince was as bored with her as she was with her prince. His absence from her chambers now seemed to indicate that. He’d not taken his rights with her too frequently in recent weeks, often claiming weariness.

To her shame, it wasn’t her royal husband whose eyes she yearned to feel upon her. Instead, she had her mind on a gaze more savage, northern, and wildling. The Free Folk per the new agreements could now be citizens of Westeros and some of their elected lords were now even recognized members of the court. Still, it wasn’t proper to notice that wildling gaze, nor to flush so deeply when she  _did_ notice it. All day those eyes distracted her from where her focus should have been: on the gallant knights and lords who had competed, on the ladies who accompanied her, on the royal family she was now a part of.

 _I have a prince,_ she told herself in reprimand,  _and I’m yearning for some uncivilized mountain man from beyond the Wall._ That wasn’t really fair to the Free Folk, exactly. She’d in fact made a friend of one of their elected leaders, the “Magna” (the preferred title of wildling lord) Val, who was nothing short of lovely and charming even if she was of a masculine bent. Everyone enjoyed Val’s company, especially Sansa’s husband. She’d noticed how warmly His Grace greeted the famed “Wildling Princess” when she came to court. Sansa wasn’t so stupid as to think the Magna hadn’t warmed her husband’s bed at least once.

But as unfair as it was to characterize the Free Folk as savages, it was less fair to lust after someone who was not her royal husband. She’d sworn oaths twice: once before a Heart Tree, another time in the Great Sept. Her promises to remain faithful were witnessed by the Old Gods and the New. Her husband, despite whatever issues they might have, was good to her. Better than any man she’d been tied to before.

Besides, it was unnatural. Men had certain needs, but ladies didn’t indulge themselves with thoughts that strayed from the marriage bed. Only wanton, lewd women did that.

 _I should be a proper princess and lady wife._ And yet she couldn’t help but have some very unladylike thoughts. It shocked her. Sansa’s childlike romanticism had long since died out, but she’d never in a million years imagined she was capable of such lusts.

Sansa’s comb came to the ends of her hair, then slipped from her fingers. Almost unconsciously, she began to stroke the skin of her collarbone and the tops of her breast. She looked at herself in surprise.  _I’m the daughter of Winterfell!_

And yet, she couldn’t help but think of another daughter of Winterfell. The one Val told her about. The maiden daughter of a Stark lord long ago who hosted a talented singer called Bael in his hall. When the lord offered to reward the bard for his music with a prize of his choosing, Bael had asked for the loveliest flower in Winterfell’s gardens. The lord gave him a blue winter rose. The next morning, both Bael and the lord’s beautiful maiden daughter had disappeared. Upon the lady’s pillow was the winter rose Bael earned from the lord.

There was a song about it, one which Val cheerfully taught the princess. Sansa watched herself stroke her skin, remembered the dark gaze that so heated her blood, and the words of it came to her lips.

She was got about a verse in when the doors flew open, causing her to jump. She scrambled to her feet, readying an explanation for her lord husband.  _Perhaps he won’t notice. Or he’ll be too shy to remark upon it._

But to her astonishment, it wasn’t the Prince of Westeros who stood in the doorway.

No, instead, it was a tall, dark figure in the grey-and-white furs and rough leathers favored by the wildlings. His leathers weren’t the only thing rough about him. Sansa’s husband was a reserved and unfailingly cordial and proper gentleman with a cool, even cold demeanor. This man entered with a severe, somewhat animalistic brutality. Heat radiated off of him, ironically greater than Sansa typically sensed from the husband whose House words were ‘Fire and Blood.’

Those dark eyes flashed and seemed to devour her, trailing along every inch of her. Sansa’s heart thundered in her chest. The man’s dark hair was slightly matted to his forehead. His gloved right fist clutched a short sword. Despite this, Sansa felt more excitement than fear.

Sansa swallowed that, though. She swallowed this as best she could, trying to remind herself of who she was. She backed up against her dressing table, reaching for one of the drawers. “What are you doing here? How  _dare_ you enter my chambers? Don’t you know who I  _am?”_

“You’re the high southern lady, kissed by fire,” he said, his voice rough and low, “I’m here for you, and I dare because I can. I’m a free man, I do as I like.”

A thousand responses came to mind and for whatever reason, the thing she said was, “I’m Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North. I’m no  _southerner!_ ”

The Wildling snorted. “Everyone below the Wall’s a southerner to us.” He began to walk towards her. “Why don’t I show you the real North?”

Sansa managed to pull open the drawer. “Stay back.” She reached in a pulled out one of the collection of throwing knives she had stored in there. Each steel blade was small, but she knew how to throw them well enough to kill. She didn’t consider herself a warrior, nor did she have any desire to be. But the years had forced her to learn to protect herself.

The sight of the blade only seemed to increase his enthusiasm, judging by the way he smirked and continued to move towards her. “Oh, lovely.”

Sansa felt a bit insulted at that. So she flung the first blade. With impressive speed and skill, the wildling managed to dodge it without losing blood. But barely. The knife in fact managed to slice a little hair fro his head as it flew past, lodging itself solidly into the shelf behind him.

“Missed me, Sansa Stark.”

“I meant to. That was a warning,” she sneered. It was the truth. If she wanted him bleeding, he would be. “I warn you now. I have a husband, a prince of the blood royal and a great warrior who——“

“—-Who isn’t here,” he replied, “Fool that he is.”

He got very close. “If he had enough brains to fill a thimble, he’d be here. He’d be here with you, laying you down, kissing that sweet mouth, stroking that fire-kissed hair, getting you nice and wet, making you cry out his name as he worshipped your cunt.”

Sansa’s mouth went dry. He was so close now. Close enough so that he could take some of her hair and run it between his fingers. She could feel his breath on her skin.

“He’s a lucky man. He has a beautiful woman with hair kissed by fire and a sure hand with a knife. Or rather, he  _had_ a beautiful woman with hair kissed by fire and a sure hand with a blade. A proper man couldn’t ask for more, would do everything in his power to protect, keep, and love such a woman. And yet he’s left you here. And I’m here to take what’s his.”

“You won’t get away with this,” she said weakly, “Trying to rape—-“

“—-I’m not going to rape you, Sweet Girl,” the wildling replied, “I’m going to steal you. I’d never hurt you—- unless you wanted me to.”

“What if I don’t want you to steal me?” She demanded.

“You do. You were looking at me all day. I bet right now, you’re soaking your fancy southern underthings. If you didn’t want me to steal you, you’d have used one of those fancy blades to shed my blood by now.”

There  _was_ a great deal of moisture soaking her pantalets at the moment. Sansa shivered.  _I am the blood of Winterfell. Not some wildling’s sully._ “You  _are_ intending on hurting me.” She glanced over to his right hand, still clutching his sword.

The wildling followed her eyes and smirked. “That’s for any of your kneeler guards that would try to stop me. Not for you.” To prove this, he dropped the steel and kicked it away. Sansa used this moment to snatch up another knife and press the edge against his thigh.

“I do have a sure hand with a blade.”

“And if you wanted to use it on me, you’d have done it by now.” He smiled. “Go ahead, Sansa Stark. If you want me gone, cut me. I’ll bleed out and you can stay here, wasting yourself on that ponce that calls himself a dragon.”

Both his hands now free, he began running his hands up and down her sides, eliciting shivers. “Or, you can let me steal you away. I’ll take you somewhere nice and quiet, lay you down on my furs, strip you of that pretty gown—- I can pull it off nice and gentle or rip it to shreds, whichever you want—- then stroke and kiss and lick every inch of you until you’re begging for me. And I’ll fuck you well. However you like. Do it nice and gentle or pound you so hard you can’t walk straight for a sennight. Not that you’ll be doing much walking. I’ll have you on your back for days. You won’t ever want to leave my furs again. I promise you that. But if you want me gone, say the word, Sweetling. I’ll leave you be.”

“I—- I—-“ She should order him away. “My husband——“

“Will never find us. And I’ll kill anyone who comes after us. You’re kissed by fire. We’ll have luck on our side. We’ll go beyond the Wall, where the southern gods can’t reach and the Old Gods’ll watch over us. No one’ll ever find us.”

He had such a soft, full mouth and such soulful eyes. “Why… why me? Why would you take such a risk?”

“Because you’re beautiful and silky and fierce and perfect. Because there’s nothing else I’d ever want if I had you. Because someone needs to make love to you properly and often.”

She dropped the knife and kissed him, opening her mouth and tasting his with relish. He didn’t taste like she imagined a wildling would taste. He tasted of mulled wine. The wildling kissed her like his life depended on it. She felt devoured in the most beautiful way.

He dragged her lower lip between her teeth as he broke away for breath. Their eyes met. She thought for second that he’d have her right there on the dressing table. Maybe throw all her beauty things to the ground, prop her up on the table surface, or bend her over and take her from behind so they could watch themselves.

Instead, he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. She almost objected, but she found she liked the feeling, especially the he reached up under her skirts as he walked and fondled her. He dug his fingers under the hems of her stockings, stroked her thighs, grabbed her arse, and teased her cunny through the fabric of her pantalets. In turn, Sansa reached for the hem of his cloak, pulling it up so his backside was more accessible. She reached under his waistband to grab at him.

The wildling took her through some private corridor out to the gardens.  _It’s a good thing it was tonight._ Normally the Red Keep was crawling with people, but most of the court had camped outside the city for the tourney so they wouldn’t be late for the sword competition the next morning and could continue drinking well into the night without worrying about making it through the city.

“Where are you taking me, Savage?” She asked him mischievously.  _A tavern? A cave? The Kingswood?_

“The Godswood. I’m going to fuck you for the first time where my gods can see.”

Sansa yelped. “Isn’t that… blasphemous?”

“It’s the southern gods with the rules. And fucking you? No god could object to that.”

Every word thrilled her. As did his hands. He kept running his thumb back and forth along the center of her folds through her pantalets. Sansa squirmed.

“Glad you’re keen, Love. But try to keep still. Want to keep a firm grip.”

“Hurry,” she gasped.  _Oh gods, I’m practically in heat._

Despite her shame, her heart lept as they finally reached the weirwoods. The white branches and red leaves played a comforting role during her captivity in the Red Keep so many years ago. In the moonlight, the branches seemed to gleam. This place proved a recurring place for hidden night time meeting for Sansa, though this one she anticipated with relish rather than approached with apprehension. The night seemed to smile on her.

A pile of furs lay near the roots of the Heart Tree. When she looked into the face of her gods, she saw no scorn. But then, rarely did she ever feel her Old Gods judged her. Mostly they just listened. The wildling let her down, draping her over the furs more gently than she’d expected.

But after his cloak was shed, he pounced on her, wolflike, seizing another kiss that convinced her that her mouth would like be purple by the end of the night.

He began yanking at the laces of her bodice. But she held up her hands and pushed. “Stop!”

He froze and pulled away, panting.

“Did I hurt my sweet southern lady?”

She shook her head and her hands went to her laces. “I just won’t have your filthy hands ruining my lovely gown, Wildling.”

Sansa smiled at him lasciviously, bending her right leg and pressing her foot against his chest. “But you may remove my shoes and stockings if you’re gentle.”

He whined and gave her the most desperate look. But his hands went to her kidskin slippers and slipped them off fluidly as she unlaced herself. Never had the Lady of Winterfell felt so unbelievably wicked.  _Making love under the stars. Gods._

When her bodice parted and her breasts spilled out, she was quick to cover her them with one hand and with the other wag her finger at them man above her, who looked ready to pounce once more. “The stockings.”

He growled as Sansa began to take her dress apart, peeling away first the damask layer and then tugging her white satin underdress over her head. As she did so, she giggled as the wildling’s fingers teased their way up her legs and rolled her stockings down. She was down to her pantalets now. But she didn’t let him touch her, pushing him back with her feet and wagging her finger once more. For a second she relished the feeling of the crisp night air against her skin. The Princess now understood why the wildlings called themselves the Free Folk.

“Let me fold them in a nice little pile so they aren’t ruined. You undress.”

She got on all fours as she folded her dresses up and placed them daintily beside the furs, rolling her stockings up and placing them in her shoes. All the while, she wiggled her hips.

“You keep doing that and I won’t be able to stop myself.”

She glanced behind her then. He’d removed everything in record time. Hard muscles rippled under scarred skin. His cock stood out stiff from a thatch of coarse dark hair. The best was the desperate look in his dark eyes though.

Sansa wiggled her hips again.

He grunted and ripped her pantalets from her. She thought he’d fuck her then—- The Gods knew she was ready for it. Instead he planted his face between her legs. His tongue went under her folds and ventured up… up…

She lost the strength in her arms and buried her face in the soft furs. So the stars she saw then were not the ones in the sky. Soon fingers got involved. His tongue was attacking her nub, two fingers were curled up inside her. Her cry would have been ear-splitting if not for the furs muffling it.

Before she knew it, he was flipping over. She now looked up at him, giddy.

“You ready for a proper fucking, Sansa Stark?”

“Yesss…” She lifted her hips.

“Shall I give it to you all delicate or…?”

“Just do it!” She yelped. She was throbbing. She needed to be filled.

He grabbed her hip and pushed in with a measured pace, groaning as he did so. “Gods…”

Sansa wrapped her legs around his hips, digging her heels in. There it was. That whole, filled feeling. The feeling of being wanted, of being taken. He picked up his pace as he moved within her.

“Perfect…”

She wanted him nipping at her neck and breasts and whispering in her hear. She wanted to clutch him to her. So she moved her hips. “Get under me.”

He groaned and flipped them over. They repositioned themselves so he sat up, their chests pressed together. They kissed more as she rode him, then his mouth went to her neck, as she wished, leaving little bites. She ran her fingers through his hair and clawed at his back.

“What would your kneeler husband say if he could see you now, Sansa Stark?” He whispered. “Taken by a savage under a Heart Tree?”

She whimpered, biting her lip.

“You were made for this, Sweet Girl. Gods, your skin is so soft and your cunt is so sweet and wet and warm.” He gave a particularly forceful thrust and Sansa yelped. “You like that, Sansa Stark?”

“Yes… yes!”

It was about this time she lost control, collapsing against him.

The wildling cupped her cheek and kissed her before pulling away to moan her name. She felt his seed spill within her and he fell back, her on top of him. She gave a long, shuddering sigh, kissed his chest, then gazed up on him. His eyes were closed, but he had a very satisfied look on his face.

“Y’cold?” He asked her.

“A little,” she admitted. With everything dying down, she could feel the beginnings of a chill. He flung one of the furs over her back and she snuggled against him.

“Thank you. You did so well,” she told her husband. He had.

“Well, it pleases me to please my lady wife,” Jon murmured. They lay there for a long time, looking up at the stars. But they could only indulge themselves for so long.

Reluctantly and on rather unsteady legs, Jon and Sansa got up, redressed, and left the wildling and wayward royal bride behind, shrugging on their mantles as Prince and Princess of Westeros once more. It wasn’t so bad, for they walked back into the Red Keep with their fingers intertwined.

 _And besides,_ the Lady of Winterfell thought,  _He can always steal me again._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Also, I'm going to start taking prompts!
> 
> So, visit me at wendynerdwrites.tumblr.com if you're interested.


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